


to reach you

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV Third Person Omniscient, fits in any part of the timeline, reduced age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: in a desperate time, a brave spy will do anything to save the person they love.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Leia Organa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	to reach you

It’s said that in the days of the Old Republic, that on the longest day of the year on Brentaal IV, that magic would begin as the first moon rose into the brilliant violet sky and disappear just as the second moon set, low on the wine-dark horizon.

Even now, years into the Emperor’s cold-hearted reign, a little bit of that magic still shimmers out there, just beyond the horizon of the purple sky.

For tonight is the longest night of the year on Brentaal IV, and tonight, there is a ball.

This, of course, is no news to the residents of the planet, who are rather accustomed to grand events hosted beneath their home’s violet sky. From concerts to pod-racing tournaments, the planet’s citizens had no end of amusements to host, to staff, and to attend. One of busiest hubs of entertainment on the planet, the Favis Resort, had won the contract for the grand Imperial Ball by a mix of trickery, bribes, and a small amount of honest work.

The Resort sits on an artificial island, and its massive glass halls allow grand sweeping views of both the gentle sea and the fearsome glaciers beyond. Or at least, they normally do. Today, every window has been cloaked with a massive black banner bearing the Imperial Crest, which blots out both the fading sunlight and the muffled echo of the music from the dance floor beyond the hall.

A single man in a uniform as grey as the shadows below the banners stands at one window, motionless, as if he can somehow see beyond the thick fabric to the view of the glaciers beyond. Something that one might call longing flickers over his face, making his brown eyes soften and his lips turn down. He reaches up to rub a bit of stubble that is no longer there, as no self-respecting Imperial officer would allow such a thing, then, brushes an invisible bit of dust off his shoulder.

He taps a shoulder lapel badge twice, an invisible signal that cannot reach the K2 unit it’s meant for, due to the construction of the glass walls. Favis Resort has had far too many cases of scandal break out among its guests to allow any sort of unauthorized communication outside. Last year alone, they had no less than ten cases of attempted corporate espionage, three of which resulted in financial loss. One resulted in loss of a few lives, but on Brentaal, like on many Core worlds, financial loss was a far greater concern. Therefore, although some safety policies were admitted lax, others were oppressively controlling. And none of them, contrary to reports by Rebel intelligence, were well documented.

For example, in the past three months, two visiting Corellian singers complained about their music being illegally holo-streamed to non-paying guests. To further prevent any unauthorized recordings, the resort relies on a far less commonly used source of staffing needs, which is well-paid and trained humanoids, each of whom commits to living for ten years at the resort.

There are at least ten electromagnetic pulse traps between him and the first exit to the outside. Three more between the exit’s opening and the last step to reach the docking bay.

The man knows this, or at least, has learned this in the last two hours, and yet he still stares out at the obscured horizon, hoping for something nearly as impossible as magic.

Then, he closes his eyes, sets his jaw, and takes a breath. When he opens them, all traces of longing, of hoping, have faded from his face.

And beyond the covered windows, the sun has set and the first moon has begun to rise.

* * *

The music starts. A few flickering notes. The warming up of various strings. A soprano’s first aria. All of the instrumentalists are human, or at least, humanoid enough to be able to hide that which makes them different from the harsh eyes of the emperor. Only a little over two decades ago, this same grand dance floor held a gathering of the most skilled singers of Mon Cala, who performed ancient songs that had never been heard outside their homeworld.

These days, all the songs sung have been carefully selected by an Imperial magistrate and approved by a second official. There can be no glimmer of any message contrary to the Emperor’s wishes for the galaxy. Not in the music, not in the ballet scheduled for later tonight, and certainly not in the discussions held by those attending the event.

If any of the older Brentaalian citizens still remember what music, freely made and offered, sounds like, they know enough to stay silent on the topic as the first song begins; a slow and romantic waltz with a timing like the pacing of a prisoner’s footsteps. The first couples appear on the dance floor, though none of them are smiling with anything approaching sincerity.

They all know that at an event like this, the expectation is to dance, to smile, to pretend to have a wonderful time, even if there is no magic in the air. Not even tonight, of all nights.

After four songs, an announcement is made that refreshments will be served, which leads to a dull wave of chatter as various officers and their plus-ones make boring conversation about topics no one will remember tomorrow.

A shadow moves among the wait staff, dressed as one of them, and yet, not one. The uniform of a chef-guild associated server had been easy for the Rebellion to find, compared to that of a guard-guild or a bartender-guild. They’d already had a fine collared cape that would suit someone pretending to be a member of the musicians-guild, but given that the spy had failed all music-related lessons in the past, it was deemed too risky of an impersonation.

So, the spy carries a gleaming tray, one among countless other wait staff, as they glide together as one amorphous unit toward the edge of the dance floor. Unknown to the Rebel leaders who had plotted this mission, the staff at such a fine event functioned as the entertainment as well.

Luckily, the spy had failed _none_ of her dancing lessons.

One might even say she is no longer dancing, but flying, making the simple linen tunic and flared trousers seem as elegant as a starbird’s wings. The spy catches the eye of more than one Imperial officer among the crowd, and not because they see through her disguise or sense her intent. Far from it. They are entranced by the curve of her cheekbone, the elegance of her wrists. She is, after all, graceful, even when she’s as deep undercover as she is now. There is an elegance to her fear, a sophistication that hides her rage beneath the fine silken lie of a smile. It’s why she, and no other, was chosen for this mission.

She bends and turns, spinning the dish on elegant fingers, without ever letting a single glittering parfait glass drop. Instead, each glass, perfectly layered with jogan fruit jelly and rich cream, topped with a single sugar-crystal Milaflower, reflected the luminous mirrored lights above.

After the dance ends, the spy-who-is-now-a-waitress waltzes from guest to guest, offering the tray of desserts to them. Most accept, won over by the aroma, or the presentation, or perhaps the soft smile that seems far more genuine than any other woman’s in the room. The Milaflowers, made out of such delicate sugar they are nearly translucent, melt on the officers lips the same way their compliments do.

* * *

Eventually, the spy reaches one officer, who is not dancing, but rather, standing at attention, listening to two superior officers bicker. His eyes only glance away once, toward the windows. Here, unlike in the hall, the view is not completely obstructed by the banners of the Empire. He can see beyond that darkness, out to the horizon, which is a shade of purple that threatens to steal his breath.

It’s the same shade as the arallute flowers which had bloomed the last time he had been on Alderaan. How foolish he had been that day. How many things he’d said that should have remained secret, locked away within his heart. How many promises he’d made, that he’d never be able to keep.

And how much he’d longed to kiss the woman who had stood next to him, her graceful hands warm between his, as they watched the sun set over that horizon for the last time.

His eyes flicker over to the glaciers around the horizon, which remind him of what he must be here, at this dance. He must have all their coldness, all their strength, if he has even the smallest chance of surviving the night.

It’s a chance he must take, because he has promises to keep.

* * *

The spy who pretends to be a waitress first offers the desert to the highest ranking officer of the three Imperials who stand before her: a Grand Moff, as gaunt as a skeleton and just as dead inside. He scoffs at her. “I have no need of sweets.”

“Speak for yourself, Tarkin,” replies the second high-ranking officer, a rather impressively sweaty specimen of human who has a large red mustache. “I find Brentaalian cuisine to be worth every credit.”

“As if we’d have to pay for anything here,” the Grand Moff retorts. “Honestly, General Hasvart, you have the despicable manners of a Wookie.”

“I can fight like one too. Wanna see?” General Hasvart asks, bristling at the insult.

The third man, who is slim and dark haired, neither tall nor short, old nor young, lets out a soft, calculated chuckle, so well-timed it's impossible to guess which of the two remarks he found humorous.

The spy sees her moment rise, a sudden star streaking across the sky. “You don’t dance, Captain?” she asks, with her soft Brentaalian accent brushing over the vowels like a painter’s brush. His badge of rank had been easy for her to read, even if she’d expected this man to be only a lieutenant. She’d learned badges and customs at the same time she’d learned the Brentaalian accent. It’s a Core world accent, one that would take a decade of schooling to master, but only a few weeks to adept between planets of the same elicit, colonizing ilk. Her original voice after all, can be just as soft, when she wants it to be.

And when she spoke to the young officer, when she was not a spy and he was not an officer, her voice had been so soft he’d had to lean in to hear it. But she had spoken hopes and wishes for a nearly impossible future between them, and those things were always better said with a voice as soft as a heartbeat.

“I do not.” His reply is clipped and official, the Military-Standard accent as crisp as his ironed shirt.

“You should,” General Hasvart chimes in, his mouth already full of the Milaflower dessert.

“It’s said that a dance can ease one’s worries,” she replies, still smiling, because of all that is at stake, and her heart aching for all that she will lose if she fails.

“Lucky for me, I have no worries,” he replies.

“Why would he?” General Hasvart claps a hand on his narrow shoulder. “He’s just been promoted! Why, girl, you’re looking at one of the youngest Captains of an entire Star Destroyer. You see, this fine young man, better known as Captain Willix, is,” this last part he seems to say, not to her, but to the silver-haired Grand Moff, which causes him to spray bits of half-eaten parfait toward the man. “Talented enough to be trusted with--”

“Let us not forget where we stand, General,” the eldest man says. The gauntness in his face is matched by the coldness in his voice, as if he’s only moments away from becoming a corpse. “There are others, just as eager as Willix here, to rise to such a rank. It would not be prudent to inspire such vigorous _competition_ at a party.”

“Unless the competition has already begun,” she whispers, toying with an earring as deep red as blood. When all three men look at her, she giggles. “I mean the dancing competition, of course. Everyone knows that the Mistress of the Soprano-Guild will honor the man who dances the best with a waltz. It’s tradition!” Her giggle echoes once more, as fake as the spun sugar flower on top of the desserts she offers.

“Your planet is far too full of foolish traditions,” the gaunt man says.

“Grand Moff Tarkin,” General Hasvart begins, “I can assure you, this event has been careful vetted and Lord--”

“Enough,” he silences the man with a hand motion like a beheading. “I understand that for the youngest and foolish of our ranks, such dances must remain an occasional luxury. Be that as it may, I see no reason to take part further.”

The waitress bows her head and turns away, fighting against the urge to look back once more at the man she loves. To look back is to risk his safety, her own, and the future of the entire Rebellion.

They are not just a waitress and a captain, though that is what their clothes suggest they are. Nor are they even simply two spies, both working for the Rebellion, though that is what their loyalties would say they are.

But they are princess and Fulcrum, the light and guiding force of the entire Rebellion, and that is what their destinies will prove them to be.

* * *

The Captain peers down at his dessert after only having a few spoonfuls. “General,” he says, off-handedly, “do my eyes deceive me, or is this not a sugar flower?”

“It… it isn’t!” He pinches the bloom between his fingers. The action breaks the fragile skin and releases an incredibly potent smell. It's somehow both sweet and bitter, a scent that overcomes those who have not prepared by smelling it before. General Hasvart begins to cough. “That’s…it’s poison! You’ve been poisoned! I should have known someone would want your title… why…”

“Calm down,” Tarkin snaps. “He’s clearly still breathing, you fool. The kitchen probably wished to save money and used real flowers.”

Privately, the man who pretends to be a captain scoffs, bitterly amused at how easily the Grand Moff trusts the safety offered by the resort. If only he’d had a little more time this morning, he might never have needed to be rescued in the first place. If he escaped this, he knew he’d never hear the end of that.

But if he escaped this, it meant that he would see his princess again, dressed as she should be, radiant in a simple commander’s uniform, her hair braided into a crown, and her eyes as bright as her smile, and so, the guilt at needing to be rescued would simply have to be endured.

“But it’s no Milaflower,” the captain says. “Whatever it is… I do feel a little odd.”

“Nothing a good night of…” General Hasvart begins. Then, the soldiers on the dance floor begin to fall down. They tumble to the ground like wax sculptures melting in a hot sun. Each of them still breathing, but all of them, asleep.

And the man who isn’t a captain in the Emperor’s army at all, smiles to himself. The Milaflowers had been real in many of the desserts, but not for a cost-saving reason at all. Rather, the drug-like properties had soaked into the cream surrounding it, leaving each one who consumed the dessert utterly sedated.

Each one, except for the man whose name wasn’t Willix at all, who had received a simple arallute flower in his desert instead. The flower had been a message, just as the red earring had been. Every step of this dance had been coordinated, and the partners who had practiced together so often before, easily found each other's rhythms. 

“Go, Willix!” the General snaps. “Get aid! Hurry. Before…” he begins to wobble on unsteady legs. Quickly, he presses a master keycard into the captain’s palm. “Get help!”

It’s the same idea many others have, as the band ceases their music and the wait staff ceases their dancing. An alarm begins to chime, a steady, incessant drone, adding to the cacophony of shrieks and moans. In the chaos, it’s easy for a single man to slip away, to lose his uniform’s coat, and to follow a member of the waitstaff, who tugs him left when all the others go right.4

* * *

Suddenly, the two spies find themselves alone in a tiny alcove, behind a durasteel door that hisses closed with a touch of the master key card. “You owe me a dance,” says the woman, leaning up on her tiptoes, to press a desperate kiss to his lips.

“And you owed me a kiss, so perhaps we can be even?” he replies, his voice once more his, once more as warm as the hearth fires of Fest.

“I am rescuing you, I’d like to note. I think I might be winning,” she replies, taking his hand once more. “Come on! We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“I have a plan.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

“Don’t be,” she flashes a real smile at him. “I’ve learned from the best.”

He shakes his head, picking up his own pace, and thinking back to all their lessons: on dancing, on accents, on military maneuvers and explosives. He knows better than anyone else just how capable, and how fearless, the princess can be. “That, dearest,” he says, “is what scares me.”

The two, Fulcrum and Princess, lover and beloved, run together down abandoned halls, through passageways, and finally, through a long-forgotten exit, which sends them tumbling right to the base of a mighty glacier.

He lets out a breath that is half sigh, half laugh. His breath crystallizes like tiny stars. “Well done, Princess.”

“Told you, I learned from the best, Andor. I hadn’t forgotten your lesson on non-deadly poisons” She’s on her feet in a second, studying the horizon. Nearby waits a ship, piloted by a rather worried K2 unit, and beyond that, freedom. Her plan, as impossible as it had seemed, worked. They’d succeeded. They would live, and so would the Rebellion.

“You have my gratitude,” he says, “and I’m assuming Kaytu’s as well.”

“Oh he’s already told me twenty times how bad my odds were. Somehow, when he calculates them, they’re even worse than the ones from Threepio.”

“He assumes failure,” Cassian Andor replies, now not only sounding like himself, but standing as he does when he is no one but the man he was born to be. “And therefore says he cannot be disappointed.”

“An interesting perspective,” Leia Organa replies, “though not one I think I’ll adopt.”

"Speaking of failure," he begins walking forward, into the light snow. "How did you know of that accidental promotion I'd received? If you'd come a day later... " he'd be dead. There was no way his disguise, no matter how well-crafted, could have passed scrutiny for the security clearances necessary to be allowed to command a star destroyer.

"I had a feeling." Leia shrugs, making it seem like such a small thing, when it had been so large and so urgent it had disrupted all her other plans. The feeling had awoken her two nights ago, caused her heart to race as if it alone within her was attempting the jump to hyperspace. She had woken up and had known, without any doubt, that the man she loved was in danger. "That's all."

“Look,” Cassian says, taking her hand as he had that day on Alderaan, except now, there is no palace in front of them, only a stolen Imperial transport and a friend waiting for them. “The second moon is only just setting now.”

She smiles up at him, kissing his cheek just once, before the two race toward their freedom, hand in hand. In his boot are the plans to a star destroyer. In her pocket rests a datacard containing battle plans stolen from a general. In their hearts is nothing but hope. They’d done the impossible, yet again, and survived. Somehow, their love reached each other, when all other messages could not.

Perhaps, the spy thinks, there still is a bit of magic left high above them, up in the purple sky of Brentaal.


End file.
